


A Scandal in Marylebone

by Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy does not approve of Sherlock's plans. Jimmy is going to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scandal in Marylebone

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to kahvi for plot suggestions and beta. This all came about when she capped the pilot, and in conversation it came up that Moriarty would have had rather a lot more fun with a drugged-up Sherlock than the cabbie did.

"Wait a moment," Sherlock rumbled in his room-saturating baritone, pasuing at the door, "I forgot to put the toes back in the freezer..." He turned and hared it up the stairs, rapidly, to tend to one of his more esoteric experiments.

John waited next to the front door, tapping his foot. It was rare enough for them to go out to eat. Rare already, of course, for Sherlock to eat at all; it was usually a matter of John eating, noticing Sherlock hadn't in a while, and cajoling him into it. And this - getting dressed and leaving the flat specifically for a meal - that hadn't happened in months. Sherlock had brought it up so amusingly formally, as well - "Would you be interested in dinner together Friday night?"

Mrs. Hudson opened her door and peeked out. "Oh, John! Heading out?"

"Yes," he replied, jerking his head upwards to indicate his absent flatmate, "Sherlock and I are off for dinner."

"Oh, that's just marvelous!" She stepped out of the door, adjusting John's collar in a disturbingly maternalistic fashion. "You two haven't really had any time together, have you?"

"Well, no, there was the armored car robbery, and then the serial killings in Brighton, and..." Life with Sherlock tended to be quite busy, John noted, as the object of their discussion trotted down the stairway, black coat fluttering around his legs like it wanted to be on a modern-day Nosferatu.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson practically beamed at the man, stepping over to brush imaginary lint off of his coat. "John was just telling me that you two were going out."

"Dinner, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, giving her an odd smile. Smiling did strange things to Sherlock's face, John noted, stretching the skin over the cheekbones like the gesture was not one his face had to deal with often. It was an unexpectedly flattering look.

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson straightened his collar, as well, and patted him on the cheek. "Now you two run along and have a good time. Don't stay out too late!" She winked before retiring back into her rooms.

" _She_ was excited, wasn't she?" John said, grinning, as they walked away. He jiggled his chapstick in his pocket. He had recently started using it, when Sarah had mentioned to him that he licked his lips every ten seconds - she commented that for one, it tended to dry them out, and two, it looked like he was warming up for cunnilingus, which wasn't quite fair given the circumstances, was it? He was sure she had been exaggerating substantially on at least two of those claims, but he had tried out using chapstick instead, and had found it quite a nice thing to slather on. It also gave him something to jiggle in his pocket that wasn't as noisy as keys when he was nervous - which he was, for no reason he could put his finger on.

Sherlock gave John an odd, sidelong look. "Quite."

* * *

"You want us to..." the large, thick-necked man said, dubiously.

"I told you want I want you to do, now go do it. I don't pay you to stand around looking like an idiot." The yob could hardly help looking like an idiot, of course, as he very much was one. That suited Jimmy fine. He had uses for stupid muscle, frequently, and this was one of those times. Jimmy stared levelly as the man touched his cap and left. Jimmy could tell the man didn't like him, and that suited him just fine, as well. Jimmy didn't want anyone to like him, least of all tools.

Well, _almost_ anyone, and that came to the heart of this little operation, didn't it? The whole Sherlock... thing. Yes. It required resolution. It had been left unresolved at the pool, and Jimmy had come to realize that this had been a rare mistake on his part. He should have laid it all out then - Sherlock had been brought in, according to plan, and if Jimmy had just killed the little creature, then they could have sat down, had a nice talk, resolved things, done... things. Good things. It could have been _brilliant_. But no, it had all gone tits-up, and now - now... the situation was getting dangerous. Sherlock's irrational infatuation with that _thing_ was getting out of hand.

Jimmy could just have him killed. Tonight, even. It was the sensible option, and some part of him told him to avoid the theatrics and just pay a goon to shoot the little maggot in the head. But Jimmy was an _artist_ , god damn it, and he would fucking well show them - that _thing_ and Sherlock - exactly what he could do.

They would be impressed.

* * *

It wasn't necessarily the restaurant John would have chosen - the food was excellent, the booths comfortable, the view pleasing, but the proprietor was, as always, a little over the top. "Mr. Holmes!" Angelo greeted them as they walked in. "And Doctor Watson. Always nice to have you here. Got yer table all set..." He lead them to the table, which was, of course, in a dimly lit corner, with two candles glowing in the middle. "A little privacy for you two, of course - take yer time, no rush, we got all night."

John flashed Sherlock an amused smile as he sat, and was surprised to get a smile back. It would be considered a wan effort by anyone who didn't know Sherlock, but John had been around long enough to tell that his true wan efforts were disturbingly excessive.

It was, all in all, a surprisingly pleasing night out. Sherlock seemed to actually have planned this as a dinner, and not as a cover for case-related activities. He was atypically talkative, telling stories of his childhood with Mycroft and early childhood case-solving over appetizers. When the main meal arrived, he plied John with questions, and John found himself telling Sherlock the stories of his own past - scrumping with Harry, early dreams of motocross dashed by the realization he wasn't very good at it, the odd things that happen at basic training. John found himself relaxing over the wine - which Sherlock, atypically, was also drinking, albeit a small amount. It was as if Sherlock had always known the conventions of society and polite conversation, and had never thought them worth the trouble of implementing, previously.

And yet, tonight, he did. John looked at those intense eyes, glittering in the candle-light, and wondered why.

"Why," Sherlock said, quietly, and it took a moment for John to realize that he had been reading John's mind again. Or, as he had tetchily corrected the first time John mentioned it in those terms, deducing from observed behavior with high accuracy. "Do you remember the first time when we ate here?"

John laughed, feeling very relaxed. "Oh, yes - the night we chased the cabbie, and I forgot my cane..."

Sherlock smiled that odd 'my lips are not used to this position' smile, looking down. "Do you remember what I said that evening, about being married to my work?"

"Yes," John replied, still grinning. That was in the early days, when he had to explain to everyone that no, he and Sherlock were _not_ a couple. He found he didn't have to explain that anymore - they had either gotten the message, or... John drained his wine, the grin slipping from his lips. Another possibility forming in his head. It was a foetal possibility, at the moment, but he could see its potential, its form.

"Perhaps I might... alter my priorities, somewhat." Sherlock was practically purring, now, leaning across the table, eyes startlingly intense. "You're a different kind of man, John, than is typical."

John smiled slightly at the multiple ways to interpret that, then looked down. Was he being... wooed? It was an odd thought, but made a certain kind of sense. He stuck his hands in his pockets, absently jiggling his chapstick. Well, what of it? What did it mean? How did _he_ feel about it? He didn't like blokes, generally speaking, but it's not like he disliked them, and Sherlock - well, if there were a different kind of man than was typical at this table, it was certainly not John.

John felt the urge to lick his lips, which was perhaps not the most appropriate thing to do at such an intimately charged moment. He pulled out his chapstick and swiped it across his lips - then looked up at Sherlock, who was looking at him very intently indeed. Sherlock. Lips. The two ideas collided in his mind, and he leaned across the table, pressing his lips to Sherlock's.

The feeling was... rather pleasing, really. Sherlock's lips were as soft and resilient as any other pair of lips he had kissed, his breath warm, with a faint odor of baking soda toothpaste. John held his lips there for a moment, rubbing Sherlock's gently. Was this what the evening was all about? He could deal with that, yes...

John sat back, feeling oddly giddy. Sherlock looked at him with the most startled expression he had seen on the other man's face, and that was worth it all, wasn't it? John smiled, then giggled a little - yes, he was feeling giddy, almost teenagerish, and really this made no sense, and the world went grey - then black.

* * *

John blinked, disoriented. Diffuse lights. Hair. Someone's hair. A beard, with two eyes on top, a nose sticking out at him. Noises - a voice. "That must have been some kiss, eh?"

John shook his head. "What happened?" His voice slurred - his tongue wouldn't work right.

A massive hand clamped around his arm and supported him as he sat up. Cold on his ass - he was sitting on the floor. "You and Mr. Holmes were all having a nice snog, like, and then you both just toppled over," Angelo replied. "I come by to see if yer all right, and then the coppers come in and take Mr. Holmes to their car."

"Coppers?" John pressed one hand to his forehead. A whanging headache broadsided him with pain at every heartbeat. He had been drugged, most definitely.

"They wanted me to think so. But they wasn't no coppers - I know coppers. I followed 'em out - and I could see what was up. Ed Zachary."

"Exactly what?" John rubbed his eyes.

"Yeah, exactly. Ed. He's got a hellfire tattoo on the back of his neck, and a big fecking neck he has, too. Those weren't coppers."

"And you let them take him?" John tried to jump to his feet. He swayed on them, leaning on Angelo.

"Sherlock can take care of himself," Angleo said, his face almost as placid as one of his namesakes.

"How do I find Ed?" John mashed his forehead against the heel of his hand, trying to settle his brain. He gasped as a deluge of cold water hit him in the face.

Angelo put the water pitcher back down. "He hangs out at the Walrus and Cucumber. If this is a gig, he'll head over there after to brag. If I know Sherlock, though, he won't be bragging."

John took a deep breath. The water had actually helped quite a bit. "Thanks... we'll see." He patted Angelo on the arm, then stumbled out of the restaurant.

* * *

John had to admit he owed a little something to Harry for giving him a phone with a browser. It allowed him to find the Walrus and Cucumber considerably faster than he could have otherwise; he was terrible about getting lost when given directions. Nevertheless, it was a good twenty minutes before he arrived.

It was a rough-looking place in a nasty area of North London - unsurprisingly, really. It was quite dark inside, and loud, and John paused across the street. He would stand out like a fucking posh thumb in there, and he hadn't brought his gun - and as dark as it was, it would be difficult to identify anyone in there without the kind of scrutiny that tends to get you beaten up in a place like that...

John noticed a movement next to the bar, and moved a little to his left. An alley next to the bar had three men in it, huddled together, bent over something, chatting with each other. John's heart leapt briefly. Could it possibly be that they had Sherlock... no, they separated, making the motions that men make when they are putting substantial quantities of money in their pockets. One of them - yes, he had a massive neck, and John caught a glimpse of red and yellow ink on the back of it.

He followed the man until they were a block and change from the pub, and well away from his friends. John was not a man for fights - he hated the whole idea, really; they were usually held for such silly reasons in the grand scheme of things. But he could do what he had to do when the situation called for it - and Sherlock's safety was about the most substantial motivation he could think of.

When Ed passed one of the many dark alleys about, John ran for him. The man looked up briefly in surprise at the sound of footsteps, reaching for his coat pocket, before John slammed into him, putting all of the force he could bring to bear through his shoulder and into the other man's gut. The wind left Ed with a surprisingly high-pitched grunt, and John landed atop, reaching for the gun in the man's pocket.

It wasn't even a gun, John was surprised to note - just a knife, and not a very good one. Blunt, awkwardly balanced, a knife for show. John nevertheless put it to Ed's throat. It would work well enough for intimidation.

"What the fuck?" Ed wheezed, his eyes bright in what little dim light filtered into the dark alley.

"Where is he?" John growled, making his voice as deep as possible. Intimidation had to work, and right away - he had nothing else.

"Who?" Ed squeaked, and John pulled the knife away from his throat and jammed it into the other man's genitals, pushing hard enough for it to prick the prick, as it were.

"Where is he?" John repeated, insistently.

"Acton Vale," Ed yelped, "abandoned office building, Fredric and Sons, big thing, green glass, that's all I know, I swear!" His voice went higher as John shoved the knife in farther.

"You'd better be right," he growled, leaping to his feet and tossing the useless knife away. He ran, hard and fast; Ed would come to his senses in minutes, at most, and be after him with a few friends; John had best be long gone by then.

* * *

How, John wondered, did Miss Marple ever cope with not having an internet-enabled phone? It was like cheating - which he would take, right now. Anything to minimize the time Sherlock spent abducted by... whoever had abducted him. It didn't matter who it was. All that mattered was finding him and getting him out of there.

John took a cab to where the Internet told him was down the road from the abandoned office building. He could see it as he paid the cabbie and left - it was fairly new-looking, with, as Ed had mentioned, impressive green glass siding. It must have been bought in the boom, and foreclosed upon in the bust.

One room, on the top floor, had a light on. It was too far up to see the movement of any figures, however, and John approached the building warily. How could he get inside, get up to that room, without being seen?

He walked around the building, and the answer kindly presented itself in the form of a maintenance ladder, going to the roof. John looked up at the eight stories of climbing ahead, and wondered just how bad of shape he had let himself get in. He started up the ladder.

Fairly bad, he decided, sitting heavily on the roof and pulling in some deep breaths. Shithell, he'd gone all soft, and this was rather a bad time for that, wasn't it? He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead again. No doubts. He simply _couldn't_ let himself have any doubts - not now, not when a doubt could possibly mean Sherlock's life.

Sherlock. John clambered to his feet, walking to the side of the building where he had seen the lit room. The roof had a substantial overhang - he had seen, from the ground, what looked like small balconies at the top of the building, and the roof overhang was likely weather protection for those. If one of those were outside of the lit room, he might be able to use that to break in. He got on his hands and knees, carefully looking over the side of the roof.

No such luck. He could see the light shining through the window, but with no balcony attached. The closest one was about fifty feet away.

He made his decision quickly. Better to have someplace to stand while trying to break in - and perhaps not coming in directly would help with the element of surprise. He crawled across to the bit of roof over the balcony, then turned and let his lower body slip over the edge. He looked down, oriented his feet, and had a moment of sickening vertigo as he let go of the roof. He landed, unharmed but shaky, on the balcony. Good. One step down. A million more to go.

The door leading from the balcony to the dark room was locked, and securely. John didn't lament not having lock-picking tools, because he wouldn't have the first idea how to use them, anyway. Well, the element of surprise would have to go. He leaned back against the railing of the small balcony, bracing himself as he kicked the doorframe hard - one, two, three times. At the third kick, something broke, and the door flew open. John ran into the room, trying to make himself a more difficult target, and fell against the door on the far side. He strained to hear.

Nothing. Quiet.

He reached up and slowly turned the latch on the door leading to the hallway. This door was unlocked, and fairly new - the latch turned noiselessly, and the door slid open smoothly. He glanced into an empty hallway, then opened it enough to slip through. He spun to face the other side of the hallway, but it was equally desolate. Dim emergency lighting gave just enough light to eliminate any shadows big enough for a man.

Light filtered around the frame of the door one room down. That was where Sherlock was, with his abductors, certainly. John debated slipping in versus bursting in, and decided on the latter. If they - whoever it was - had heard him, they would be waiting for someone to come through that door, so his best bet was to do it as quickly as possible.

He walked to the door, placed his hand on the latch, took a quick breath - then pushed the latch down, pushed the door open, and dove into the room.

He rolled and came to his feet. Nothing. The room was empty. Well, empty of people - but as he looked around, he realized it was not furnished quite like a typical office. Handcuffs dangled from the arms of the office chairs. A rather posh wooden desk had a knife buried into it about two inches. A cat 'o nine tails lay on the floor, casually discarded, old blood crusty and brown on the thongs.

John felt his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Oh, god. Had Sherlock been here? Chained, beaten, threatened, who knows what else? _Where was Sherlock?_

Panic started to set in. John raced out of the room and ran to the next. Empty. Dark. John threw chairs aside, looked in the closet, under the desk - nothing. He ran to the next room, ripping open the door, throwing furniture around. Visions of Sherlock in his head - beaten, chained, even - good god - ravished - drove him on, from room to room, leaving furniture scattered in his wake.

Halfway around the building, he ran into yet another empty office - but through the large green glass window, he could see dim light on the balcony. A ridiculously ornate four-poster bed, fully made, was squeezed ignobly onto the balcony, and a lean, shaggy-haired figure lay limply on it. "Sherlock!" John yelled, running to the door and wrenching it open. He stumbled towards the bed - and fell forward, hard, catching himself on hands and partly on chin as something tangled in his legs and jerked them upwards. He looked up to see something coming down at him rapidly. There was no time to see what it was, no time to think, at all; his instincts and training kicked in, and he rolled to one side as that something slammed into the balcony floor, inches from his gut.

John jumped to his feet, calling himself all kinds of nasty names for bursting out onto the balcony like that. He had no weapons, and the person across from him...

The very familiar person across from him. Impeccable suit, impeccable hair, impeccable bastard. A sense of hatred so intense it made him feel physically ill roiled in his viscera.

"Oh, so sweet of you to turn up to our little party, John," Moriarty said, airily, swinging the weapon in his hand. An American-style police baton, John noted, solid and long, and Moriarty was swinging it like it was a skip-rope, as if he had seen too many homoerotic police dramas on TV. Still, that was a weapon that required skill only to _not_ make it lethal. With the weight and leverage of the thing, it could brain him easily. He eyed Moriarty warily. "We were just having a little slumber party," Moriarty continued, glancing over at the figure on the bed.

John didn't look. Sherlock was either all right or he wasn't, and losing this fight before it started while checking on him wouldn't help one bit.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm impressed," Moriarty drawled, swinging the baton lazily at his side. "Any monkey can fight. It takes a gentleman to outmaneuver his opponent, which is what I've done. I don't like you, John. You're trying to put yourself in a position far, far above your lot in life."

John kept his eyes on the lazily swinging baton. Perhaps, if he came in while Moriarty was talking instead of fighting... He chose his moment, then dove at Moriarty, swinging his fist hard. The baton came down on his outstretched arm with a crack, and he jumped back with a yelp, squeezing the arm to his chest.

"Oh, you're so predictable," Moriarty sighed, then his eyes narrowed and his voice turned angry. "Dropping everything to come running after your precious fucking Sherlock. Not taking a moment to think. It would hardly have been worth taking the time, though, you little shit; you don't know how to think, do you." Moriarty wiped a fleck of spittle from the side of his mouth with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket, then placed it carefully back. "Now, this is how it's going to work. I'm going to kill you, and then Sherlock and I can have a nice little talk, like two adults. You're not _invited_."

Moriarty came at John, swinging the baton. John evaded as best he could, but the balcony was small and constricting; the baton connected with his thigh, and he fell again, scrabbling backwards as Moriarty swung again. He missed the brunt of the shot, but the baton clipped his chin, and his teeth clamped down hard on his tongue. He spat out the blood, using the railing on the balcony to help him back to his feet.

"Oh, John," Moriarty purred, "I _like_ seeing you like this." He swung the baton idly, walking back and forth, like a hunter trying to decide the best way to dispatch a trapped rabbit.

Good bloody hell, John fumed, he had gotten himself in a bad, bad spot. What could he possibly _do_? He was unarmed, and had not a possibility of acquiring any kind of weapon, and with the range of that baton in close quarters, he could not hope to get around it. He'd have to outsmart Moriarty.

Outsmart Moriarty. What a ridiculous concept. Even Moriarty grinned, as if he were following John's thoughts, Sherlock-like. Moriarty was the intellectual equal of Sherlock, after all. How could John hope to outsmart him?

No doubts, he reminded himself. He couldn't afford them. The only hope Sherlock had was for him not to have doubts - but how could he not, with Moriarty grinning at him so evilly, so sure of his plan?

His plan. John suddenly realized - yes, Moriarty's plan. John had trained and served, after all, with an enemy who wanted only one thing - to kill him. It hadn't even entered his mind that an enemy could want anything else. But if Moriarty wanted him dead, John would have been dead long ago. Jimmy could make that happen, most certainly. No, although death was the ultimate aim, it was not the immediate one. Moriarty wanted him in pain; John had somewhere, somehow, made himself enough of a thorn in Jimmy's side to warrant this attention.

John couldn't find it flattering, but his course of action was clear. Moriarty wouldn't swing to kill. There would be pain, but _Sherlock_ was at stake, after all.

So John ran at Moriarty, thoughtlessly, aggressively, building up all the momentum he could muster. Moriarty swing at him, hard, landing a blow to his side that made something _crack_ , and another upwards into his groin, which thankfully he didn't have room to swing very hard at - but it nonetheless made John's brain explode with pain, and he fell against Moriarty. He was _there_ , though, and that was all that mattered, his hands around Moriarty's neck, the man's eyes widening in surprise, dropping the baton, scrabbling at John's hands. John held on, driving his thumbs into Moriarty's windpipe with every iota of strength he could muster. He would - he would kill Moriarty, if he had to, keep him from Sherlock...

The weight suddenly jerked in his hands, and he stumbled forwards, falling against the railing. Spots danced in front of his eyes as he saw Moriarty tip over the side, falling...

The adrenaline left John's body, leaving only a sick and shaky feeling behind. He fell to a sitting position, looking dumbly over at the bed. His brain was empty. The bed... something was on the bed. Something important, but he couldn't see it from here and couldn't really bring himself to care. A bed. Some figure was on it, once, some...

John staggered to his feet and stumbled towards the bed, falling on it. Sherlock looked at him with glassy, drug-addled eyes. "Sherlock..." John panted, putting his hand on the man's neck. The pulse beat there, strong and soothing, and John fell back on the bed, exhaling a long, shaking breath.

* * *

It was an odd and quiet cab ride home. Once John had rested and Sherlock had recovered, they had simply left - whoever took over the property could deal with the aftermath of John's search, with Jimmy's sex toys in the office, with the bed on the balcony.

John sat with his arm wrapped tightly around his still-aching ribs, and could not think of a thing to say. Sherlock did not seem to want to speak, either; he looked out of the window, as if some great mystery that required intense scrutiny lay there. The silence hung, thick and uncomfortable, over their cab ride, however, and John felt an urge to say _something_.

"Quite a date, eh?" he said, and Sherlock looked over, the faux-smile not even approaching his eyes. John sighed and looked away again. "Maybe we can try again later?" He stuck his free hand back in his pocket and jiggled his chapstick nervously.

"Maybe not such a good idea," Sherlock's deep voice replied, quietly.

"Mph." John looked out of his own window, not certain why that felt so... odd, in his viscera. "Well, at least not back at Angelo's. I've had enough poisoned wine for one lifetime."

"Wine?" Sherlock asked, jerking his head around to look at John.

"Well, yea - stands to reason. We both passed out after the wine." He pulled out his chapstick, swiping it quickly over his lips.

"Oh, god, John..." Sherlock sighed.

"What? John asked, confused. He had to laugh - the look on Sherlock's face! He felt oddly giddy.

The world went grey, then black.


End file.
